


Angel

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Holidays, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-10 15:58:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10441437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: The Noldor have no such holidays; Bëor shares his.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for “Culture Clash/Mix” prompt on [my bingo card](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/153917135000/my-holiday-themed-bingo-under-cut-you-can-make).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s mesmerizing to watch him, ethereal and fair, beautiful beyond anyone Bëor’s ever seen, as he strolls through such humble paths. Bëor tries to entertain him, to answer all his idle questions, but it becomes difficult when a new tilt of Nómin’s head or a sudden glint in his eye will have Bëor speechless. In a voice like song for either language, Nómin fingers the silver ribbon strung about the nearest tree and asks, “And this?”

“More decoration,” Bëor stumbles to explain. “It’s not symbolic for anything that I know of—just another part of the tradition.” 

“How interesting,” Nómin murmurs. He looks truly captivated, though Bëor thinks his people’s holidays must seem wildly strange to such an exotic creature. Nómin strolls forwards towards the next tree, lined with baubles, and smiles at a passing woman who carries her basket over her head. She blushes and returns it, the children behind her staring in open awe. Nómin’s already turned away to hold a single bauble between his delicate fingers. He looks to Bëor, but Bëor isn’t sure what for, and only smiles uselessly.

Then Nómin is distracted again, and wanders towards the market place, where tents and wooden stands boast holiday fares of all variety. Bëor tells him, “I will buy you one, if you like. Perhaps you can bring it back to your people and think of us.”

“You will always be in my heart regardless,” Nómin says so easily, without glancing back to see how Bëor’s breath has caught. He pauses to eye a small white doll sporting paper wings, and before he can protest, Bëor’s pulled some coins from his pocket and thrust them out. The old lady behind the counter takes them gratefully and hands the doll to Nómin, who smiles like the stars. He gives her a gracious bow and to Bëor offers a dazzling, “Thank you.”

Bëor mutters, “You’re welcome,” while Nómin tucks the doll into the half-open neckline of his tunic. The doll, with its bright colour scheme and yellow-yarn hair, doesn’t look all that different than its owner.

Bëor thinks of how to explain what it stands for, and what other legends surround the holiday—a man that flies the length of the world in a single night, a monster that steals children in its sack, and a living creature of snow—but Nómin has already spotted the next thing. He points to a sprig of mistletoe strung between two tents, asking innocently, “And that? Why have you cut leaves from a tree, only to tie them high again?”

Looping an arm around Nómin’s, Bëor pulls him closer, professing quietly, “I’ll show you.”

Under the mistletoe, Bëor dares to brush a few light strands from Nómin’s cheek and peck his soft skin, chaste and swift. When Bëor’s pulled back again, Nómin’s face seems to glow, and he grins broadly, laughing, “Marvelous.” 

Then he repeats the gesture, only aiming for Bëor’s mouth.


End file.
